


Pants

by ihavealotofwords



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint's A Dork, Crack, Fluff, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, However you wanna look at it, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Something's Starting Here, maybe? - Freeform, slight crack, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 20:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2202375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ihavealotofwords/pseuds/ihavealotofwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hulk ripped more than his fair share of Bruce's pants throughout the years. Clint decides that Bruce needs a few spare pair hanging around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pants

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked: So there's headcanon floating around that Clint keeps an extra pair of pants for the hulk in his quiver and I think that would be a great basis for a fic (can be as shippy or gen as you like)
> 
> Prompt filled [here](http://fanofallthingsadorkable.tumblr.com/post/95799077355/so-theres-headcanon-floating-around-that-clint-keeps) at my tumblr. 
> 
> I took a break from my current multichapter fic to fill this prompt that I've had for a while. It was late, and I couldn't sleep. Expect slight crack.

Clint Barton’s quiver was a thing of beauty. Personally developed under Clint’s watchful eye and given the utmost care, it was Clint’s second-most prized possession (the first being his bow itself, of course). The quiver was made from a lightweight, durable material and sectioned off into different compartments for each arrow type- because mixing arrows was not something he wanted to experience again, not after the time he had accidentally grabbed a confetti arrow instead of a bomb arrow and had bedazzled the giant wolf-ant hybrid they had been fighting at the time. Wolf-ant hybrids apparently didn’t appreciate poorly timed confetti explosions. That battle had been a right pain in the ass (and who mixed wolves and ants anyway? Where on earth did these scientists get their ideas?).

After the last upgrade, Clint’s quiver had several smaller compartments at the base, easily accessible during the heat of battle. Clint gleefully proceeded to fill said compartments up after the newly-refurbished quiver had been returned to him. One compartment held smoke bombs, perfect to toss into an unsuspecting villain’s face. Another was filled with arrowheads- replacements if he ever found himself in a pickle. The compartment closest to his right hand was kept well-stocked with crackers and skittles- a man has to eat when a man has to eat, after all. The last compartment, however, didn’t hold anything of Clint’s. No, tucked away inside that last spot were several pairs of carefully folded pairs of shorts.

It started about a month after Clint had received his upgraded quiver. They were in a routine skirmish with Doctor Doom’s bots, no big deal, when Clint had been ambushed and unceremoniously tossed off the top of a building. The ground came up at him in slow motion, as it usually did when he was about to painfully crash into it and possibly break, like, all of his bones.

And how bad was it, that this wasn’t the first time he had experienced that?

Clint braced himself for impact right before it came, though said impact came from the wrong direction. The world spun and shook several times before everything stopped moving and Clint found himself cradled in one large, strikingly green arm. The Hulk gently placed Clint on the asphalt, crouching over him as rubble followed them, crashing down around them. Clint winced.

Now, don’t get him wrong; the Hulk had saved him from, you know, probable death and pain (though not in that order). Clint was grateful to see him, really he was, and the whole shielding-with-his-body thing was brave and kept Clint away from another possible death via entire body crushing.

Clint wasn’t complaining, really. But he could do without the giant, wrinkly, green balls hovering over his face.

Of course, it wasn’t Hulk’s fault that Banner’s clothes ripped every single time he decided to come out to play. It’d be scary if the big guy could fit in Banner’s clothes. It usually wasn’t a problem; no one stopped to stare while you were beating the ever-loving shit out of the bad guys, and Bruce retook control quickly after their battles.

If Hulk was going to start making a habit of this- ‘this’ meaning saving Clint’s life and yes, maybe he was being overdramatic but he was currently getting a clear view of the big guy’s big junk, so sue him- he had to be, well, less buck-ass naked.

Cue the shorts.

A few months prior, Tony had invested in a ridiculous amount of giant purple stretchy shorts, only to pout when he realized that no, Bruce could not wear them under his own clothes so the Hulk would be left wearing them after a transformation. He was more than happy to turn them over to Clint.

“Though I didn’t know you had a size kink,” he said with a snort, laughing at his own bad joke. Clint disappeared into the vents in the three seconds Tony had turned around to wipe the tears of mirth out of his eyes, purely to freak him out. It was always a good idea to keep that man on his toes and not let him get too comfortable.

Of course, Clint couldn’t pass the shorts off to Hulk in the heat of battle. Fights were not good places to suddenly break into fashion shows, as he had learned that one time in Bora-Bora (don’t ask). Now that the Avengers were a team, though- an honest-to-goodness team who worked together and everything- they would often strategize before bursting on the scene, weapons blazing. They would assess the situation, to determine who was necessary to the mission. If the Hulk was needed, Bruce would be given the run-down, just in case, before he turned control over to the Hulk, who was re-given the plan to fill in what he hadn’t heard in the back of Bruce’s mind.

The first time that had happened since the wrinkly green balls fiasco, Hulk had started pacing on the helicarrier as they approached the drop site. The others had spread out, getting their own gear ready. Clint sidled up to the big guy, tapping his arm and ducking when he swung out blindly.

“Hey, hey,” Clint said hurriedly. “It’s just me, big guy.” Hulk frowned down at him, hefting the scraps of Banner’s pants up higher to try and cover himself- like Clint hadn’t already gotten an up close and personal look at everything he had to offer.

“Tiny hawk? What want?” Hulk rumbled, peering down at him. Clint fiddled with his quiver until the compartment popped open and he procured a fresh pair of shorts.

“I noticed you were looking a little, uh, cold there.” He held the shorts up. “I brought these for you. Here.”

The Hulk accepted the shorts, unfolding them and dropping the scraps of Banner’s slacks to the floor. He stepped into the shorts and broke into a smile. “Fits,” he said. Clint nodded.

“Yeah, well I have a few pairs stashed away in here, just in case you need them,” he said, patting the quiver proudly. “Anytime you need- whoa!”

He found himself swept up into a crushing hug. “Thank tiny hawk,” Hulk said, awkwardly petting Clint’s head.

“Don’t mention it,” Clint wheezed. “Hey, buddy? You’re crushing my lungs.”

The Hulk let go and placed Clint down gently. He was still smiling in awe, like being handed a pair of shorts was the nicest thing that had ever happened to him. With a pang, Clint realized that it probably was.

That had been the start. Whenever he could, Clint provided the Hulk with a clean pair of shorts before or after a battle. Over time, Clint noticed that the big guy was clinging to consciousness more and more after their battles, rather than immediately giving Banner the reigns like he had been doing. Not that Clint minded- Hulk might have been a slow speaker, and you sometimes had to translate his grunts as best as you could, but he was a surprisingly lot of fun to talk to. He said exactly what was on his mind bluntly, no holding back. And as time went on, Hulk’s vocabulary got bigger and he began talking more clearly. Clint imagined that hardly anyone had ever taken the time to talk to him.

If Banner noticed what was going on, he didn’t bring it up. Hulk told Clint that they could sometimes see what the other saw while they were in control, but not always. As it was, Clint always made sure that Banner got back safely and woke up alright before leaving. It was easy to talk to Hulk, but Clint didn’t know about Banner.

That was how the cycle went, almost every mission they were called on together, without fail.

Until the day Hulk didn’t catch Clint when he fell.

It had been quick, too sudden, and then all Clint knew was darkness. He was used to it, the kind of quiet darkness that came from being medicated too much to even move. It was waking up that sucked, when the darkness went away and the pain came back full force.

The sounds of the hospital were also distressingly familiar. Clint cracked one eye open, but quickly closed it against the harsh light. He waited for his eyes to adjust before opening them and finally looking around. He was in a standard Shield medical room, nothing special. The only thing different than what he usually woke up to was the figure slumped over his bed, messy brown curls spilling over the sheets as their owner slept in a position that made Clint want to wince just looking at it.

But why was Bruce Banner, of all people, in his hospital room?

Clint groaned when a wave of nausea hit him and Banner’s head snapped up. He blinked sleepily before sitting up. “You’re awake,” he rasped, peering at Clint.

“Guess so.”

“Good,” Banner said with a nod. He looked oddly relieved.

“Not that I’m not happy to see you- I’m happy I can see anything, really- but why are you here?”

Banner shifted in his chair and stretched, popping his neck with a sigh. “The, um, Other Guy was worried.”

“What?”

“He insisted I stay here until you wake up.” Banner yawned. “He was in bad shape, worrying about you. And, well, he never asks for anything, so…” He shrugged.

“He didn’t have to worry, I’m fine.” At Banner’s pointed look, Clint amended, “I will be fine. It’s a flesh wound, that’s all.”

“He’s still worried. He cares about you, you know?”

Clint frowned. “You know about it?”

“I was there the entire time,” Banner deadpanned. “I saw most of it.”

“Oh.”

“It’s been good for him. He’s not so… scared.”

“I thought anger was his thing.”

Banner shook his head with a strange expression. “The anger covers up the fear. But he’s been calmer since you started spending time with him.”

“Oh. Well, it’s not much. I just-”

“Treat him like a person?” Banner cut in. Clint frowned. “You’re the first to ever truly do that.”

Clint’s frown deepened, but before he could respond he flinched in pain. Everything was starting to hurt. Banner stood.

“I’ll get the doctor,” he said. Clint nodded shakily.

“Thanks, Banner. And I don’t plan on stopping, by the way.”

Banner paused at the door. “I didn’t ask you to.” He glanced back. “And it’s Bruce.” Then he was gone. Clint sighed.

What even was his life?


End file.
